Fires of the Heart
by Melface
Summary: A dead man is found, almost completely burnt, in a crop circle in upstate New York. The CSI team is called in. It seems this dead man has quite a tale to tell.
1. Prologue

CSI: NY – Fires of the Heart

Prologue

Nighttime in the countryside just outside of Syracuse, New York, almost dawn. Everything was quiet; peaceful.

The back door of a white farmhouse opened, Rober Hanson stepping out onto the porch. Looking out across the yard, he sighed, smiling, and started down the steps, workboots clomping on the wooden boards.

On his way to the barn, he glanced out across the cornfield, stopping as he saw smoke curling into the sky, seemingly from the crop itself.

Frowning, he climbed onto a batterd four-wheeler, and headed out onto a track between two of the fields, heading to where the smoke was coming from.

There were about eight rows of cornstalks between the trail and the smokesource. Upon pushing through the crop, Hanson found himself in the middle of an empty circle of field, a partially burnt pickup truck straight ahead.

Pulling out a cell phone, he dialled hurriedly. "Hello, 911?" He paused, looking again at the truck. "I have a burnt truck in the middle of my field . . . . 291 Cedarvale Road . . . . It's in the middle of a crop circle . . . . Okay. Thank you."

Terminating the call, Hanson looked around. ON the left side of the circle was a gap in the corn. Walking over, he saw it extending farther into the field.

He passed through a flower-shaped patch where the corn was lying on the ground, cut down by some sharp implement. Another straight passage led him to a second crop circle. Unlike the first, this one had a little round patch of corn, unlike the other. Walking over, Hanson pulled several stalks aside, examining it. Looking further ito the corn, he spotted something lying incongruously on the ground.

Closer inspection revealed it to a badly burned hand and arm, stil connected to the body of a dead person.


	2. What Have We Here?

I do not own CSI: New York. I'm just an overly obsessed person who enjoys writing.

Shoutout: Thanks to my friend Evan for helping with research for this story!

Chapter One: What Have We Here?

Four people pushed through the conrstalks, each looking around at the police talking into handsets, crime reporters snapping pictures.

The Syracuse county coroner came over, extending a hand. "Simon Fyors," he said. "County coroner."

One of the newcomers, a dark-haired, straight-faced man, took the proffered hand, shaking it. "Mac Taylor," he replied. Gesturing to the others behind him, he introduced them by name. "Stella Bonasera, Lindsay Monroe, and Danny Messer, all detectives with the NYC CSI unit."

Stella stepped forward. "Your message said something about a crop circle death?"

Fyors nodded. "Yes. This way."

¤

Stella and Mac leaned over the burnt corpse of a person, Stella snapping several careful photos.

"The body was found by the farmer whoowns this property; Robert Hanson," Fyors was saying to Danny and Lindsay. "he says he was coming out of the house, onhis way to the barn, when he saw smoke rising out of the field. He went to check the source, and found a pickup truck. Didn't touch anything, but he looked around a little more, and came across our vic here."

Mac looked up at Fyors. "Where's this truck?"

The coroner pointed east. "There's another crop circle that way, truck is in the middle."

Stella looked over at Danny and Lindsay. "Why don't you two go check that truck? Mac and I will do what needs to be done here."

Lindsay nodded, heading off toward the other site. Danny gave a small mock salute with two fingers.

"Aye aye, cap'n," he said, before following Lindsay. Stella raised the camera back to her eyes, snapping another photo.

Looking down, she caught sight of a burned piece of . . . something, sticking out from underneath the closed fingers of the dead man's hand.

"What have we here?" she murmured. Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, she set her camera to one side. Crouching down on all fours, she examined the thing. It was blackened by the fire that had killed the victim, some of it's edge crumbling off.

"Hey, Mac?" The dark-haired detective turned away from his conversation with Fyors. "Check this out," Stella called over her shoulder, still studying the thing.

Mac knelt down beside her, casting a sideways glance in her direction. "What'd you find?"

"Maybe something, maybe nothing," she answered, pointing carefully toward the thing in the dead man's fist. "Whatever it was, this guy was holding onto something for dear life."

Mac stood, brushing off the knees of his pants. "Not the best figure of speech to be used here," he said, straightening. "We'll have Hawkes take a look at it whenthis guy gets to the lab."

Picking up her camera, Stella snapped a picture of the thing as Mac started in the direction of the other crop circle.

"I'm going to check what Lindsay and Danny have," he said. "Then I'll head back here, and we'll get this guy shipped off to the lab."

Stella nodded, then stood, taking a photo of the victim's face.

¤

Lindsay lifted her camera to her face, take a final photo of the left door on the partially burnt Ford F-150.

"That's the last of the exterior photos," she said, glancing at Danny.

"Let's see what the inside has to offer, then," he answered. Tugging on his gloves, he carefully opened the driver's door, and flicked on his flashlight. Scanning the beam around, he occasionally held it steady for Lindsay to take another picture. The dashboard, driver's seat, steering wheel, passenger seat, leg spaces, glove box and doors were all photographed from the two front doors of the extended cab.

Opening the door to the cramped backseat, Danny bent down, playing the flashlight beam over the space under the seat.

"Lots of ash under there," he commented. "Probably had a ton of junk stuck under there, could be the flash point for the fire."

Lindsay, on the other side of the truck, snapped a picture of the leg space in the backseat. "Well, our vic _is_ male," she said, angling around for another photo. "And most of your gender aren't the neatest creatures in creation."

Danny rolled his eyes, and straightened, shining the flashlight across the seat. He stopped, forehead furrowing as he a caught sight of something.

"Hey, Montana, check this out," he said, leaning forward. Lindsay leaned in, looking at the spot illuminated by the flashlight. Carved into the upholstery was a crude outline of a flower.

"Huh," Lindsay murmured. "What have we here?"

"Looks like the vic was killed here, then dragged to second crop circle," Mac said, coming up behind Danny. "What've you got so far?"

"Possible flash point, and possible female presence," Danny answered, tilting his chin at the blackened and partially burnt seat. "Metal seat components protected this part of it from being burned away."

Lindsay took a photo of the flower, then glanced up at the two men. "The flower could've been there for months, years even," she pointed out. "There's that it's from the person who torched the truck."

Danny stepped back from the vehicle, studying the ground. The area around the cab was dry, and undisturbed. But around the rear wheels and tailgate, it was darker brown.

"Lindsay, I need your camera," he said, holding out a hand, eyes still on the ground. Lindsay passed the camera to Mac, who handed it to Danny.

Pushing his glasses up a little further up on his nose, Danny pressed his eye to the viewfinder. The shutter clicked, and he lowered the camera. "Look at the ground over here," he said.

The dirt was wet, like someone had sprayed with a hose. A small puddle was near the rear left tire.

"Someone was trying to put out the fire," Mac siad, crouching down beside the patch of wet dirt.

"Maybe the same person who killed our vic?" Danny suggested.

"But how did they put it out?" Lindsay said, coming around the back of the truck. "It's not like there's a garden hose around here."

Danny raised a finger. "Ah. But there could be irrigators," he said.

Mac nodded. "Start looking for them," he said, starting back toward the western crop circle. "I'm going to check on Stella, then go have a chat with the farmer."

Lindsay turned back to the truck. "Let's get some samples of whatever this puddle is, and some of the soil," she said. "Could be that it's not what we think it is."


	3. Can I Have Your Number?

Who knew so much research went into writing one little fanfic?

Correction note: In the previous chapter, I was calling the fire's starting location a 'flash point.' Lucky thing about having a firefighter for a dad, you easy research. The so-called 'flash point' is actually called an insipiant stage. Sorry if that caused any confusion.

Chapter Two: Can I Have Your Number?

Mac opened the door to the barn, stepping inside. Ahead, down an aisle between two pens of _maah_-ing goats, was a man, forking hay into the enclosures.

"Mr. Hanson?"

The farmer turned, catching sight of the man standing in the middle of his barn, seeming out of place in a suit.

"Who's asking?"

The dark-haired man showed a badge. "Detective Mac Taylor," he said, putting the badge away and taking a notebook and pen. "I'd like to ask you some questions."

Hanson shrugged noncommitally.

"What time did you find the truck?" Mac asked, studying the farmer. Balding, a scraggy-looking beard, a face lined by work and age. Green-gray checkered shirt, faded blue denim overall with dirt patches on ths knees, grimy smudges down thr front where he'd wiped who-knew-what off of his hands. Battered steel-toed workboots, the material split on the toes, metal peeking through.

" 'Bout six-thirty a.m., give 'r take," Hanson grunted.

"And when did you find the body?" Mac said, jotting down the information.

"Six thirty-five, I guess," Hanson replied, picking up another forkload of hay, tossing it into the goat pen. The animals immediately stopped using their mouths for making noise, and began to work on the food.

"Was anyone else around?" Mac asked, looking up at the farmer. "Hired hands, neighbours?"

"Nope."

"Did you see anyone you didn't know?" The farmer just shook his head. He could have been reacting to the shock of finding a dead body. Most people didn't take it all the well.

Taking out a card, Mac held it out to Hanson. "If you remember anything, please call," he said. The farmer took the card, examined it a moment, then nodded, putting it in a pocket of his overalls before going back to his work.

¤

The four detectives met up at their black SUV, around four o'clock. Mac was the last to arrive, finding Danny, Lindsay, and Stella waiting for him.

"What all did we get?" he asked, leaning on the side of the hood.

"Vic is a John Doe," Stella said, "Nothing yet to identify him by name. Personal effects were a melted cellphone, burnt clothes, and whatever he's holding in his left hand."

"Truck evidence came up with a set of keys, a possible insipiant stage, a possiblr female presence, and evidence of how the fire was out out," Lindsay said.

"You managed to find some irrigators?" Mac guessed.

Danny shook his head. "Farmer has non. Only time and a lab report'll tell what it was."

Mac opened the driver's door of the SUV. "Well then, let's get back and find out what that report says."

¤

Sheldon Hawkes was bent over the burned hand of the John Doe victim when Stella walked in. The scientist looked up, smiled.

"I was wondering when you'd be around," he said. "I'm just about to find out what this man was clinging to for dear life."

"I already used that line, Hawkes," Stella said, leaning down. The vic's fingers eased open as Hawkes slowly straightened them, crackling as the charred skin protested.

"Rigor mortis is starting to wear off," he said. "Still going to have to move slowly, though."

The hand finally lay open, palm up, revealing a piece of paper, discoloured by smoke, yet relatively undamaged. Hawkes picked it up in a gloved hand, holding it up for Stella to see.

Written on it was the number 555 – 6198, as well as a short message: Call me ♥

"Call me," Stella murmured, quickly scribbling down the number, smiling to herself. "I think I will." She turned to start out of the lab.

"Hang on a sec, I'm not finished," Hawkes said, waivingher back inside. "I also ran a DNA sample through the database. We've got a match."

Stella brightened. "Today's our lucky day," she said, re-entering. "You got a name?"

"Yep. Cory Quinata, small-time private massage therapist out of NYC. Did an overnight for public drunkeness three years ago."

Stella smiled again as Hawkes passed her a folder. She opened it, skimming it quickly. "Excellent. I'll run this to Mac, then give that number a call."

Hawkes nodded. "I"ll give Mr. Quinata here another go-over. See if there's anything else I missed."

¤

Mac looked up as Stella knocked on his open office door.

"Hey. Got some good news, and some good news," she said, tossing the folder onto his desk.

"The John Doe is Cory Quinata, lives and works in NYC. We also . . ." she held up the number she'd copied from the piece of paper found in Quinata's hand. " . . . have the number of whoever he was with that night."

"Great. You placed a call yet?" Mac asked, picking up the folder.

"Just about to," she answered, already heading for the door. "I'll let you know what I get."

¤

Lindsay knelt beside the Ford F-150's running board, studying something in the soot. She didn't look around as Danny came up behind her.

"Hey. You called, said you'd found something?"

Lindsay nodded. "Yeah. Take a look at this."

Danny crouched down neside her, taking a close look at the spot she was indicating on the running board.

Clearly outlined in the black soot was the imprint of a shoe. There was a thin dot, a space of about four and a half inches, then a rounded triangle of compressed grime.

"Looks like there _was_ a female visitor on the scene that night," Lindsay said. "And whoever she was, she dressed for partying."

Danny nodded, still looking at the shoeprint. "You don't wear heels to go for a romantic walk in the corn," he agreed. He leaned forward. "And she even left us a little something extra."

Lindsay looked to where his finger was hovering. A faint circle was in the rounded triangle part of the print, surrounding an even fainter '6.'

"Size six heels," she murmured. "A petite party girl."


	4. I Didn't Do It

Shoutout to all those who reviewed my story, or added me to a Favourite Author/Story list! Thanks!

Chapter Three: I Didn't Do It

Lindsay leaned inside Stella's office door, holding a case folder. The other detective was in the process of dialling the phone, the receiver tucked against her shoulder.

"Calling the number left by our vic," Stella said, holding up her copy of the phone number. Lindsay stepped inside as Stella went silent and still, listening. Abruptly she hit a button on the phone front, replacing the receiver.

"Hello?" A voice asked. Female, young-sounding.

"Hello, this is Detective Stella Bonasera from the New York City CSI unit. I'm calling to ask you two things. First: your name."

The person on the other end hesitated. "Jessie Vorn," she said cautiously. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"Sure you can," Stella answered. "Right after you answer mu second question: Do you know a man named Cory Quinata?" Silence. "Ms. Vorn?"

"I heard you," the voice snapped. "How did you get this number?"

"Demanding, aren't we," Stella retorted mildly. "Listen, honey, Quinata was found dead yesterday morning clutching your phone number. Now, to a CSI like me, that looks just a tad suspicious. Care to explain?"

A pause. "Can I have your number to call you back? This isn't a great time for me," Jessie said.

Stella smiled, studying her desktop. "Better yet, why don't you come down here and we'll have a chat, face to face."

Jessie sighed. "Fine. This afternoon, somewhere around two?"

Stella nodded. "See you then." There was a click as Jessie hung up, then Stella disconnected the speakerphone.

Lindsay glanced at the phone. "That sarcasm is going to get you in trouble one of these days," she said, smiling slightly.

Stella shrugged, smiling as well. "Shock factor. Makes them think twice." She nodded at the folder in Lindsay's hand. "You find something?"

"Yeah. Two somethings. There was a print in the soot on the running board of the truck. Size six, stiletto heel. Looks like Quinata had a friend over. And it would have been _after_ the fire, not before."

"Female killer?" Stella mused, rolling the information around in her mind. "Could be Jessie. We'll check her shoe size when she gets here. If she's a match . . ." she spread her hands. "We've got suspect number one."

Lindsay held up the folder. "Thing is, we might have another contender for that title. I checked out a bit of Quinata's history. He was married." She opened the file, turning it toward Stella.

"Torie Fieldon married Cory Quinata three years ago," Lindsay said, pointing to a computer printout. "No kids. And if it was a love relationship, as opposed to money, it may be a crime of passion."

Stella nodded. "Give Torie a call, see if you can get her to come down here." Lindsay nodded and turned to leave. "Oh, before I forget . . . ." Lindsay stopped in the doorway, half-turning.

"Try not to let it overlap with Jessie Vorn," Stella advised. "The last thing we need is a catfight in the interrogation room."

¤

Mac and Stella sat across the table from Jessie Vorn. She was small, maybe five-foot-four, age twenty-two. Blonde hair came to her shoulders, held back by a small, inconspicuous barrette on each side. She wore jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a lightweight white sweater, with the sleeves rolled up. A pair of women's hiking boots were on her feet.

"How did you know Cory Quinata?" Stella asked, crossing her arms on the tabletop. "Random acquaintance? Family friend?"

"We were . . ." Jessie hesitated. "Romantically involved," she said carefully.

Mac glanced down at Jessie's arm, which was resting on the table. Four small, dark bruises were on the skin, the cetnre two slightly in front of the others.

"Where were you the night before last?" he said, looking back up at her face. On the jawline, on the right side of her face, was a nearly healed, nearly invisible bruise in a pale, sickly shade of yellow.

Jessie sighed. "I met up with Cory on one of the backroads, and we went cruising. When it was dark, he took me back to my car."

"Who left first?" Stella asked.

"I did." Jessie answered, now staring fixatedly at the tabletop. "There was a space of about thirty seconds, then his headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. I turned right, he turned left, and that was the last I saw him."

"Did Cory give you those bruises?" Mac asked, tilting his chin at her arm.

Jessie pulled her arm off the table, lowering it to her lap, out of view. "No," she said shortly.

"Quinata was murdered, Jessie," Stella said sharply. "You were the last to see him that night."

"What was he driving?" Mac asked, leaning back in his chair. Jessie sniffed slightly.

"A black Honda Civic," she said, still staring at the table. "He always drives the Civic when he meets with me." She gave a half-felt smile. "I guess I should 'met' instead of 'meet,'" she added.

Stella got up, moving around beside Jessie. "Let me see your feet please."

Bewildered, Jessie slowly turned sideways in her chair. Crouching, Stella took Jessie's right foot, untying the laces on her boot. Pulling it off, she looked at the size imprinted on the insole.

"Size six," she said, smiling humourlessly. "Same as the print Lindsay found." She stood, handing Jessie her boot. "What were you wearing on your feet when you met with Cory the other night?"

Jessie looked up, wary. "Canvas sneakers, white," she said, becoming calmer, her face expressionless. "And I swear to you, when I drove off, Cory was as alive as the two of you are right now."

"You were the last to see him," Mac commented. "If you didn't kill him, who did?"

Jessie crossed her arms. "I don't know. But I didn't do it."


	5. Searching For    Something

I do not own CSI: NY. I just have nothing better to do than write fanfics all day.

Torie Quinata sat in a separate interrogation room, across the table from Lindsay. Danny was leaning against the windowsill not far away.

"How long were you and Cory married?" Lindsay asked, her voice calm and quiet.

Torie wiped her eyes. "Three years," she sniffed. "We lived in an apartment in Manhattan."

"Where was your husband's work?"

"58th Street," the dead man's wife answered. "He worked in a private practioner's building."

"Were you aware that your husband was seeing another woman?" Lindsay asked tilting her head slightly to the right.

Torie shook her head. "He'd just told me the night before. Out of guilt, I guess. I always thought that he'd never kept secrets from me."

Danny pushed off from the windowsill, moving over to the table. "Mrs. Quinata, can we see one of the shoes you're wearing, please?"

Torie looked from Danny to Lindsay, surprised, then reached down, taking off the high-heeled sandal on her left foot. Holding it out, she waited as Lindsay took it.

"Size six," Lindsay said, glancing up at Danny.

"What is this about?" Torie asked. "How will knowing my shoe size tell you who killed Cory?"

"It tells us one very important thing," Lindsay said, placing the case file onto the table. Opening it, she took out a photo of the shoeprint. Placing Torie's sandal next to it, it was easy to see that the shoe and print were identical.

Torie shook her head in disbelief, before looking at Lindsay, who was now examining the shoe sole. "You don't seriously think I killed my own husband," she said incredulously.

Danny shrugged, crossing his arms. "I dunno, Mrs. Quinata. You'd just found out your husband was cheating on you. Maybe you were jealous."

Torie's face set. "No," she said, on the verge of anger. "No, you're wrong."

Lindsay stood up, holding the case file, photo, and shoe. "Well, this shoe says you might be wrong." She held the sandal sole-first toward Torie, showing the black smudges against the tan-coloured tread.

"Can I have my shoe back now?" Torie asked, holding her hand out.

"Sorry, we've gotta take it for a couple tests," Danny said, heading for the door, Lindsay following. "If you don't mind me saying so, that stuff on the bottom could tell a very interesting story."

The door shut as the two left a rather shocked Torie behind.

¤

Lindsay stood looking into a microscope when Danny walked in, carrying a microscope slide.

"One sample of soot from the running board," he said, setting the slide down beside her. "You got anything yet?"

"Don't know," she answered, leaning back. "And I won't know until I see that other slide." Picking it up, she looked back into the microscope, looking at the first slide again before slipping the second into it's place.

"Well, it's a visual match," she said, leaning back again to offer Danny a look. He examined the samples, nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, that's the same on visual, but chemical might be another story."

Lindsay took the two slides from the microscope. "Well, let's find out what that story is." She moved over to a table, and set to work.

"Ran into Mac on my way back with that sample," Danny said, standing beside her. "Seems Jessie Vorn has a size six foot too."

Lindsay tapped slide number one. "Question is does she have the shoe we're looking for?"

Danny shrugged as Lindsay took two tiny vials of the evidence over to a machine, getting it started on analysing the stuff. "Maybe, maybe not. If this evidence doesn't prove Torie guilty, we'll have to seach both her place and Jessie's."

The chemical makeup analyses came up on a computer screen, both Lindsay and Danny leaning down to take a look.

"No match," Lindsay said. "The soot from the burnt truck still carries chemicals from the paint. The stuff from Torie's shoe contains wood particles."

Danny's forehead furrowed slightly. "So Torie's fire was a wood-burning one."

"Looks like we have a few more questions to ask Torie."

¤

"When was the last time you wore these shoes?" Lindsay asked, holding up the high-heeled sandal.

"Four days ago. Cory and I were invited to a beach party," Torie answered, studying her fingernails intently.

"There was a bonfire?"

Torie looked up, vaguely surprised. "Yes. You learned that from something on my shoe?"

Lindsay nodded. "The type of soot on your shoe is different than what we're looking for." She tilted her head toward the door. "You're free to go."

Torie stood. "Do I get my shoe back?"

Face expressionless, Lindsay handed her the sandal. Bending down, Torie slipped her bare foot into it. As she fastened the strap, she lifted her pant leg slightly, enough to reveal the tattoo of a flower around her ankle.

"Wait a minute," Lindsay said, holding up a hand. "Crouching, she looked closer at the tattoo. The flower was indentical to the one carved into the F-150's back seat. Five petals, with a vine wrapping once around the ankle.

"How long have you had this tattoo?" Lindsay asked, looking up.

"Since high school," Torie answered. "Why?" Danny glanced down at Lindsay, catching on.

"What kind of car do you drive?" he asked, looking over at Torie.

"A silver Volkswagen Jetta," she said, clearly wanting to be anywhere but in the interrogation room. "If you'll excuse, I have an appointment." She pushed past Danny, out of the room.

He sighed, turning to face Lindsay. "A silver Volkswagen Jetta instead of a black F-150, soot from a campfire and not a torched truck. We're running out of suspects _and_ evidence, Montana."

Lindsay shook her head slowly. "Back to square one."


	6. Secrets

I do not own CSI: NY or any of the characters. Much to my sadness . . . .

Mac was leaning over an examination table which held Cory Quinata's clothes, studying them closely. The left side was the least burnt, the fire having consumed the victim on the right side first, catching to anything easily flammable.

The dark leather jecket was barely salvageable. Parts of the thin lining had been consumed by the fire, and the leather itself was dry and cracked. The victim's pants weren't much better. They were little more than chalky, brittle, crumbling rags, same as the shirt.

The shirt . . . . It had once been whitish-blue, but was now smoke-darkened to a dark gray. Except for one small, darker blotch, extending from a charred right armpit.

Using a pair of tweezers, Mac carefully took a piece of the blotched shirt fabric, placing it inside an evidence envelope.

A knock sounded at the door, causing Mac to look up. Sheldon Hawkes stood in the doorway, one hand still on the frame.

"Hey. I found something new on our vic. You got a minute?"

Mac nodded. "Sure." He held up the envelope. "There's also the matter of this."

¤

Hawkes slid two head X-rays of the vic onto the lighting board, flicking it on. "At first glance, the cause of deathis smoke inhalation. Residue from the truck fire is in his throat and nasal passages."

"That's not what killed him?" Mac asked. Hawkes shook his head.

"Nope." He slid another X-ray on to the board. Depeicted this time was the victim's skull, left side on. "The victim suffered blunt force trauma to the head," said Hawkes, pointing to a dark blob on the X-ray, near the temple. "That's didn't kill him in itself. My guess is that the blow knocked him out, then whoever hit him left him in the truck and torched it."

"He would've been breathing, even though he was unconscious," Mac said, nodding slowly. "And the smoke from the cab killed him"

Hawkes nodded. "Yup. And take a look at this." Walking over to the eamination table, he pulled back the sheet covering Cory Quinata's remains. Going around to the right side, he bent down, waiting as Mac joined him. Pointing to the top rib on the half-burnt man, Hawkes placed his finger at the base of a scratch on the bone.

Mac's forehead furrowed. "He was stabbed?" Hawkes nodded again.

"Judging by bone growth, it was just before he died."

Mac looked at the envelope in his hand. "In that case, I'd best get this down to Trace." He glanced at the ME. "Did the stab wound hit anything vital?"

Hawkes shook his head. "The knife would've only hit the rib, muscles, and shoulder. Painful, but not deadly."

Mac nodded slwoly, straightening. "And when his first plan failed, the killer hit the vic in the head, knocking him out. Both looked up as Danny and Lindsay entered the room. Neither looked like they had good news.

"We got the report on the plates from the truck," Danny said, crossing his arms. "They were stolen off another car."

Mac frowned. "What kind of car?"

The corners of Lindsay's mouth twitched. "A SmartCar. Plates from a tiny car to replace those of a truck. Whoever did this went to a lot of trouble."

"What about the Vehicle Identification Number?"

Danny shook his head. "Gone. Pried right off the dashboard."

Mac was silent, thinking. "Okay. Track down the SmartCar's owner. He may have seen who stole the plates." He handed the evidence envelope to Danny. "And drop this off in Trace on your way."

Turning back to Hawkes, he looked down at Cory Quinata's remains. "Whoever it was, someone wanted this guy dead."

¤

Stella got out of the black SUV's driver's seat, pocketing the keys. The vehicle was parked in front of a small house in a residential area of Syracuse.

Going up to the front door, she knocked, waiting as footsteps inside approached the door. It opened, revealing a stocky, dark-haired man, wearing cutoff shorts and a black muscle shirt.

"Yeah?" Dark eyes darted to Stella's left hand as she showed her badge.

"Detective Bonasera, New York City CSI. I'm looking for Jessie Vorn?"

The guy blinked in surprise. "Jessie?" He asked apprehensively. "Why? What's she done?"

"She's a suspect in a murder investigation," Stella said briefly. "Where is she, please?"

The man gestured her into the house, Stella covering her mild surprise. Jessie hadn't said anything about a boyfriend.

"You're not here to . . . arrest Jessie are you?" The guy asked. Stella merely shook her head.

"No. You can relax."

Jessie appeared at the top of a short flight of stairs. "Tyler? Whowas at the –" she stopped as she caught sight of Stella. "Detective? What is this about?" Stella held up a folded piece of paper in her right hand.

"This is a warrant to search your house for any evidence linking you to Cory Quinata's murder," she said. "Another officer will be here in a few minutes to help me."

The man who'd opened the door, Tyler, spoke up. "This is crazy! Jessie didn't kill anyone!"

Stella looked from him to Jessie. "How do you know him?"

Jessie swallowed nervously. "Detective Bonasera, I'd like you to meet my husband, Tyler Colston. We've been married for six years."


	7. Shoes and Shootings

I own nothing in this story but it's plot. That's it.

Danny turned from the readouton the glowing computer screen, looking over at Lindsay. "The stuff on the shirt is bloodm all right. Mac called it."

Lindsay nodded slowly. "So the vic was stabbed, then hit on the head, then left inside a burning truck." The printer spit out the readout, the paper dropping into the tray. Picking it up, Danny slid it inside the case file.

"C'mon, let's get this back up to Mac." The two left the lab, heading toward a short flight of stairs behin two lab technicians.

"Somebody really went to a lot of trouble to kill this guy," Danny said. "Yet there's nothing to suggest he had enemies."

"We still have to search Quinata's place," Lindsay reminded him. "Hopefully that's turn up something." She paused, watching, as Danny stopped in the middle of the hall, at the foot of the stairs. His eyes were fixed on the feet of the lab technicians as they walked up the steps. 

"Danny? You okay?"

He nodded. "Montana, do me a favour. Take a couple steps up the stairs, just normally."

Mystified, Lindsay turned, walked up three stairs, stopped, and looked back at Danny. He was smiling. "What?"

Danny turned. "Come on. We need to take another look at that shoerint we found," he said, starting for the impound garage.

Lindsay jumped off the stiars, hurrying to catch up with him. "And why do we need to do that?"

"You'll see."

¤

Crouching by the right-side running board, Danny examined the shoeprint, smiling slightly. "Whoever made this print did something wrong," he said, casting a sideways glance at Lindsay. "Look at that, and tell me what you see."

Lindsay looked at the print for a couple seconds. "I see a print from a size six stiletto heel," she said. "A dot from the heel, and the rest from the toe."

Danny nodded. "And that's what's wrong. When you climb stairs or a ladder, most people only use the ball of their foot and their toes." His eyes glittered. "No heel."

Lindsay was beginning to catch on. "And the the print was made _after_ the fire." She looked at Danny, catching his smile. "This print was planted."

"And so the search narrows." Both looked down as Danny's phone beeped. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. "It's Stella," he said. "There's a new suspect up in Interrogation Room 2. She says we might want to sit in."

¤

Stella sat across the table from Tyler Colston, facing the mirror glass behind which Danny and Lindsay stood, watching.

Sliding a photo of Cory Quinata's burnt face across the table, Stela watched for a reaction. "Recognize this guy?"

Tyler's eyes shifted to the photo, then back up to Stella. "He's got no face. How could I recognize him?" 

"His name's Cory Quinata," Stella said. _That_ got a reaction. Tyler's eyes widened, blinking. "You know him."

"No," Tyler stated, jaw tightening.

"What' about his wife, Torie?" Tyler's mouth opened, ready to form the word 'no.' Stella cut him off. "The _truth_, Tyler," she warned, voice rising slightly.

"All right!" he half-shouted. Calming himself, he spoke again. "Yeah, I knew Torie," he muttered. "She and I hung out in the college days. Her daddy didn't approve of my kind, so we kept it quiet. Eventually, it got messy, and she broke it off. Few years later, she dropped me a note, saying she'd married some high-end money-boy. And I never heard from her since."

"What do you drive?" Stella asked, foldingher hands on the tabletop.

" Black Ford F-150."

Behind the mirror glass, Lindsay and Danny smirked, exchanging glances.

¤

Torie opened the door to her apartment, to see Danny and Lindsay waiting outside. "Detectives," she said, surprised. "What brings you here?"

"We need to take a look around your apartment," Danny said, holding up a folded search warrant. "We'd appreciate it if you would cooperate."

Torie swallowed. "Of course," she said, looking from one to the other.

Lindsay and Danny entered. There was a small entryway, from which a tiny kitchen branched to the right, leading to a small, open dining room. A sitting room was at one end of a hallway, the bathroom and master bedroom at the other. A door led to a sloet laundry room, and a small den branched off the hallway. Lindsay headed for the bedroom, Danny for the sitting room.

A sweep under the bed revealed nothing but a couple suticases, empty, and several large dustbunnied. Ditto for the bedside table and dresser.

Standing up from the white shag carpeted floor, Lindsay moved over to the mirrored closet door. Sliding it ope, she crouched, playing her flashlight beam over the rows of high-heeled sandals inside.

"How many shoes does this woman have?" she muttered. With a sigh, she leaned forward, taking the first shoe in line. Turning it over, she scanned the sole. Nothing. Replacing it, she reached for the next one.

-

Danny was lying flat on his stomach, looking under the couch. "Nothin' but dustbunnies," he muttered.

Rising up onto his knees, he shone the flashlight on the couch's endtable. A full ashtray caught his attention. Several of the cigarrette butts inside were ringed with lipstick. Others were not. Danny put one of each in evidence envelopes.

Standing, he moved down the hall to the bedroom, carrying the evidence he's just collected. Entering, he checked on Lindsay.

"You find anything?"

Lindsay replaced the shoe she was studying in the closet. "Just that she has thirty-eight pairs of high-heeled sandals in here," she said, reaching for the next one. "So far, anyway. You?"

Danny tapped the ecidence enveloped lightly against his hand. "DNA traces, and maybe another suspect. You checked the bed yet?"

"Just underit," Lindsay told him, picking up her seventy-eighth shoe, rounding out the number of pairs at thirty-nine.

Danny pulled back the coverlet, exposing a lightweight brown, gold, and white quilt. Beneath that were blue sheets, patterned with white flowers. Going over the sheets with luminol screen and flashlight, Danny found nothing.

Neither did Lidnsay. With a sigh of frustration, she sat back on the carpet. "Forty-five pairs of sandals," she said. "The woman must've bought out every shoe store in New York City."

Danny looked at the top shelf of the closet. Several banker's boxes marked 'Shoes' were lined up, lids on firmly.

"Hey, Montana. Check it out." Walking over, he lifted the first box down from the shelf, setting it on the floor. Pulling the lid off, he revealed another four pairs of shoes. Together they began working through them.

The pile of banker's boxes grew, as did frustration. Until the last one. The first hint was the skewed box lid. Lindsay took it, dusting the edges, inside and out, for fingerprints, while Danny check the shoes inside.

"Got something," Lindsay said, studying the left inside edge of the lif. Preparing a piece of lifting tape, she place it over the print, carefully peeling it off.

"Same here," Danny grinned. "And it only took us sixty-seven pairs of sandals.

There was a quiet thud, then, a moment later, a click. Mystified, the two detectives moved out into the hallway.

"Torie?" Lindsay called. There was no answer. Moving slowly, Danny and Lindsay walked toward the sitting room.

There, lying sprawled on the cream-coloured carpet, was Torie. She was on her back, head lolled to the right. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the couch. A dark red stain spread across the carpet, growing slowly.

"I'll call Mac," Danny said seriously.


	8. Secrets of a Dead Woman

I do not own CSI:NY, or any characters invovled in the show, just my story plot. No stealing please.

Mac ducked under the crime scene tape, examining the body on the rug. He glanced at Lindsay and Danny who were standing off to one side.

"Did you hear anything?"

Danny shook his head. "Barely. No sounds of struggle. Just a thud, and a click as the door closed, and nothing else."

"Where were the two of you?"

Lindsay nodded to the hallway. "The bedroom, going through her closet. We managed to find a shoe that may have been used to plant a print on the burnt truck, as well as a fingerprint from the box it was in.

Mac looked again at the dead woman on the floor. "Whoever killed Toriewas quick." He looked up at the two detectives. "What did Torie do after you two started your search?"

"She took one look at the search warrant, and gave us free run of the place," Danny answered. "Didn't follow us around or anything. I started in here, Lindsay took the bedroom. A while later, I joined her, we found the print and the shoe, heard something, and came back out here to find Torie dead."

Mac nodded. "Okay. Take your evidence back to the lab. I'll handle things here."

¤

Sid Hammerback looked up from his work as Danny entered the room. "Ah. Right on time."

"What've you got?"

Sid sighed, shaking his head. "Not much." He nodded at Torie, who was lying on the examination table. "At first glance, COD is a slash to the throat," he said, finger hovering over the gash. "But further examination . . . ."

Placing his hands either side of the dead woman's face, he turned her head to the right, away from Danny. At the base of the skull, right on the hairline, was a round, well-defined hole.

"Execution shot," Danny murmured, bending down for a closer look.

"According to X-rays, the bullet lodged just inside the brain stem. It controls heartbeat and breathing; most likely killed her instantly. Powder burns and faint abrasion ring point to a contact wound," Sid said, hands on hips.

Forming his right hand into a 'gun' shape, he placed the tip of his forefinger millimetres away from the bullet hole.

"Our killer put the gun to head and pulled the trigger, before she could even make a sound."

Danny shook his head, straightening. "Nasty."

Sid nodded agreement. "Yep. Fortunately . . . ." He reached over to a smaller table, picking up an evidence envelope and a paper-filled report cover. "I was able to get the bullet for you. As well as a tox report. Seems that Mrs. Quinata was taking Xanax. Her medical records show that she suffered from anxiety-related depression."

Danny took both bullet and tox report. "Thanks. I'm gonna check if Lindsay found anything on the evidence we collected in her apartment, but call me if anythin' else turns up."

Sid nodded. "You got it," he said, before turning back to the victim.

¤

Lindsay was just coming out of the Trace lab as Danny was going in. "Hey, there you are." She was smiling, two computer printouts in hand.

"What've you got?" Danny asked, leaning back against the doorframe. Lindsay handed him the first printout.

"The particles on the shoe tested postive for paint, as well as unleaded petroleum, used to ignite the fire. And that's not the best part." She studied the second printout. "We got a match to the print we pulled off that shoebox."

Danny's eyes brightened. "Not kidding. Who?"

Lindsay smiled, holding up the printout for him to see. "Tyler Colston."

_A/N: Okay, I love reviews. So click that little button and let me know what you think! Sorry this is short, but that just makes the story last longer!_


	9. Confessions of a Killer

I do not own CSI:NY, just my story plot. This is the next-to-last chapter. Sorry if that jerks any tears, lol.

I'll apologize in advance for Tyler's speech. Hey, the guy's drunk, what do you expect? Do you know how fun it is to write for drunk people? Very amusing.

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The door was opened by Jessie, who reacted with no surprise. She seemed to be getting used to having crime scene investigators turn up on her doorstep. Danny and Lindsay received a mere glance before she gestured them into the house.

"I've already told Detective Bonasera everything I know," she said. "I don't know how I can be of help with Cory's death."

"Actually, Jessie, it's your husband we need to speak to," Lindsay said, rocking back on her heels, hands in her pockets.

Danny studied the fresh-looking bruise on the bridge of Jessie's nose. "Where'd you get that bruise, Ms. Vorn?"

Jessie's hand went to her face. "It's stupid, really. Walked into a doorframe. Wasn't watching where I was going."

Stepping forward, Danny moved her hand. Placing the knuckles of his right hand against the bruise, it wasn't hard to see what the real cause was. "You sure you didn't walk into someone's fist instead?" he asked, stepping back.

Jessie sighed. "All right. Tyler gave it to me. Sometime she comes home drunk, or his favourite team'll lose the game, and he'll be in a bad mood. But he always apologizes. Always."

"What about last night?" Lindsay said, tilting her head curiously.

"He came home late, drunk again. He seemed moody too, like something was bothering him. I asked if he was okay and he . . . lashed out. Then he went to bed. I woke up this morning and he was already gone to work.

"Where were _you_ last night?"

Jessie hesitated. "I was here. Alone."

Lindsay set her case down on the stairs, opening it, and pulling on a pair of gloves. "Can I have your hands please?"

Jessie watched silently as Lindsay checked both her hands for gunshot residue. The right yielded nothing. But the left . . . .

Lindsay looked up at Danny, then Jessie. "Unlike you, Torie Quinata never knew what hit her."

Jessie glared back. "She was fooling around with my husband!"

Danny shrugged. "And you were fooling around with hers." Jessie stayed silent, looking down at the floor. "Where's Tyler?"

"He's down at the Lanternlight, a tavern here in town." She looked back up, glancing between the two defiantly. "And I'm not saying another word until I get a lawyer."

Lindsay shrugged, holding up the GSR test slip. "That's fine. The evidence can speak for itself."

¤

The door to the Lanternlight tavern opened, Mac and Stella entering. Tyler Colston was sitting at the bar, a half-filled beer mug in front of him. Stella gave it a push, sliding it away down the bar.

"Little early in the day to be drinking, isn't it?"

Tyler shrugged blearily. Evidently, he'd already drained the mug more than once. "S'not so bad. Leas' it gets m'mind off things."

Mac came around to Tyler's other side, sitting down on a barstool. "Can you account for your whereabouts four nights ago?"

Tyler listed a little in Stella's direction. "Was out drivin' aroun' in the country. You gotta truck, you like t'go cruisin.'" He folded his arms on the bar. "Well, I tooked a wrong turn, wound up onna backroad, and wha' do I see? My Jessie, kissin' some other fella."

Stella's eyebrows lifted. "You saw Jessie and Cory together? Why weren't you seen?"

Tyler's eyes narrowed. "They wuz busy. 'Sides, headlights's burned out, 'n' my truck purrs like a kitten, y'can't hardly hear it." He winked clumsily at the female detective. "Y'oughta take a ride in it sometime," he added.

Mac spoke up. "What happened after you saw Cory and Jessie?"

"Kep' goin.' Road was a dead end, I turned around, shut the truck off, an' waited. When Jessie headed off, I walked over to Cory."

"You confronted him?"

"Nah, jus' warned 'im offa my girl," Tyler answered. "That's a big diff'rence tuh confrunt'ashun. He said 'e din't know wha' I was talkin' abou.'" Tyler glared blurrily at the black bartop. "I figured a li'l persashun was in order."

Stella crossed her arms. "So you pulled a knife on him."

Tyler's drunken fingers fumbled at his right hip, taking out a pocket knife, tossing it on the bar. "This'n right here. Used it too, just t'teach 'im a less'n."

Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, Mac picked up the knife, folding out the blade. It had been cleaned, but in the groove at the top of the blade, there was atiny pathc of blackish-brown.

Stella opened her case, taking out a protected swab and a little spray bottle. Coming around to Mac, she ran the swab inside the groove, applying two spritzes from the little bottle. The swab tip turned a bright fluorescent pink.

Mac looked from the swab to Tyler as Stella took the knife, crouching down for an evidence envelope. "So you stabbed him. Then what?"

Tyler stood abruptly, swaying slightly on inebriated legs. Mac stood as well, watching carefully. The drunken man stood still a moment, then made a bolt for the door, knocking Stella over in the process.

Wrenching the door open, he came face to face with the two cops waiting there, both of whom wrestled him to the ground.

"I did it, okay?" Tyler was shouting. "He was hollerin' an' carryin' on. So I conked 'im on the head to shut 'im up. He did, then I tossed 'im in my truck and torched it, just to finish 'im off." He struggled as the two uniforms put his wrists in handcuffs. "Pair a' headlights shows up: Jessie'd come back. She an' I had it out, then wen' home."

Mac watched as the two cops hoisted Tyler onto his feet. "Did you leave the truck burning or put it out before you left?"

"Lef' it burnin,'" Tyler slurred. "Lef' it burnin' so that dirtbag wouldn't touch my wife no more." He grinned unsteadily. "So. You gonna 'rrest me, or wha'?"

Stella nodded at the cops holding onto Tyler. "That's exactly what we intend to do.


End file.
